His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1)

by J. Eric Hance

  He collapsed back into his chair, dejected. His voice came as a nearly inaudible squeak. “But I don’t want to die.”

  “I don’t want you to die either, Dave. We’ll do everything we can to keep that from happening. First things first, you need to stay calm and we need to think.”

  For almost a minute, Dave’s overly bright eyes darted around his apartment once more, searching out any sign of trouble. Finally, with a reluctant shrug, he nodded.

  We spent all day discussing the victims I knew about, trying to determine patterns and connections without success. I hadn’t expected to find anything, but then I was just biding my time. My plan was simple—keep Dave close until his aura ran out. When the assassin came, I’d be waiting.

  Karen called after lunch, like she’d promised; again mid-afternoon; and once more before dinner. My phone, though, had remained silent for hours since. Maybe she was just late, but I feared that was no more than a comforting lie.

  David’s anxiety grew throughout the day, while the black aura waned. By ten o’clock, he apparently could take it no longer. He grabbed his coat and reached for the door. “I need to go outside, just for a minute.”

  I grabbed his arm. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Just for a minute. I’ll come right back. These walls are going to drive me crazy.”

  The thin black line was well under a quarter-inch, but likely had at least a couple of hours left. As long as it was really only a few minutes, it’d probably be fine.

  “I’ll come, too.”

  “Hell yeah, you will.”

  Outside, dark clouds continued to threaten, but the ground remained dry. The air was hot and charged with electricity, filled with expectation. When the storm finally broke, it would be intense.

  It was the kind of night where only bad things happen.

  My cell phone rang.

  There was only one person I’d been expecting to call, and I’d all but convinced myself she’d never call again.

  With a thrill of apprehension, I pulled the phone from the front right pocket of my jeans.

  The caller ID read, “Karen Winston.”

  I breathed a deep sigh of relief and answered the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello, Karen.”

  “My apologies,” answered a deep, masculine voice. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  I struggled with a sudden flush of panic, doing my best to keep calm. “Let me talk to Karen.”

  The voice chuckled, though the sound was devoid of humor. “Oh, I’m sorry, Michael. Karen can’t come to the phone right now…”

  He chuckled a second time. “Or, really, ever again.”

  XXVII

  Into the Trap

  I quickly turned to Dave, covering the handset. “Get inside and lock the door, now.” He had a couple of hours left, at least. I’d be back in plenty of time.

  “But, Michael…”

  “I said now.”

  Dave turned on the spot and ran back inside. I’m not sure if the look in my eyes or the tone of my voice convinced him, but his face went ghost white as he fled.

  I ran for the Mustang. I’d intentionally parked close, in case we needed a quick retreat.

  I slammed the car into gear and floored it. It leaped forward onto Warren Avenue with a roar, its tires squealing against the pavement. In barely a block, the speedometer read fifty.

  “Who is this?” I barked into the handset.

  I swerved onto Mercer without using brakes; the car’s back end swung wide with a sickening lurch.

  “Please, Michael.” The voice again chuckled mirthlessly. “Let’s not play those games. You know who I am.”

  I did.

  But the longer he talked, the better my chances of catching him at Karen’s condo.

  “All right then, what do you want?”

  During the day, it would take half an hour to reach Green Lake from Seattle Center; over an hour, actually, in any kind of traffic. This late, in Robert Winston’s Mustang, I’d do it in ten.

  Still an eternity.

  “Nothing surprising. You’ve destroyed my home, interfered with my business, and sparked a police interest I’ve worked at length to avoid. All in all, you have proven very inconvenient.”

  I merged onto I-5 North, topping ninety.

  “Uh…” I responded, my voice dripping mock sincerity, “sorry?”

  The man’s voice deepened, betraying its first genuine emotion. “Back the fuck off.”

  With a click, the line went dead.

  The speedometer’s needle sat buried at 120. Even after ten p.m., I-5 is never empty. I was more likely to die in a horrific crash than actually reach my destination.

  Michelle was dead. Karen was…well, I honestly didn’t know, but the odds were seriously stacked against it being good. A hundred other deaths remained unanswered.

  Despite them all, or perhaps because of them, I smiled.

  The bastard was getting nervous.

  Within minutes, having miraculously survived my half-blind, fully insane, rocket flight through the night, I killed the engine two blocks from Parkview Condominiums.

  Nine minutes, to be exact.

  It took every ounce of logic and self-control to stop short of my destination. I wanted to run at full speed right through Karen’s front door, to rescue the damsel and smite the evildoer.

  And that, of course, was exactly what he planned.

  I mean, obviously, Karen was the bait in his trap.

  The bell tolled in my head and a frigid wave enveloped my body. With a quiet snap, the scythe’s familiar weight settled into my bony right hand. A nearby streetlight flickered.

  My exposed jaw split in a predatory, skeletal smile.

  He hadn’t planned on me.

  At ten-fifteen, the streets of Green Lake were completely deserted. I moved quickly and quietly, encountering no one. It took only a minute to climb the stairs to Karen’s condo.

  Her door was unlocked.

  I pushed it open carefully, peering within. Cold night air rushed over my back on its way inside.

  The small foyer appeared undisturbed. Two shelves of glass and ceramic puppies stared back at me accusingly. Pictures of Karen and Robert, the happy couple, still hung on the wall.

  Nothing had changed since this morning.

  Moving as quietly as possible, I slipped through the front door, meeting no resistance. With a deep breath, I continued into the living room.

  That’s where I found Karen.

  The sense of déjà vu was nearly overwhelming.

  She once again lay on the living room floor in nothing but a threadbare pink robe, her aging body on display for anyone who might wish to see.

  Not that my friend was in any state to care.

  A bloody gunshot wound gaped in the right side of her abdomen. Much of her robe, and a large swath of carpet, was stained dark red.

  I’d seen this man kill more people than I cared to count. He might be a monster, but his methods were quick and efficient. With a gun, he favored two bullets to the chest and one to the head; in my case, it had been two to the back, but only because he struck from behind.

  Even Marcus, an apparent OD, had just drifted into an endless sleep.

  Karen’s wound, though, was the kind that would linger.

  My anger boiled until I went numb.

  She wasn’t yet gone, but only just barely. Her aura, at most the width of a hair, flickered eerily…like a dying bulb.

  There was little, if any, time to save her.

  Furious at the need, I swept quickly through the rooms of the small condo, seeking the intruder. Getting myself killed would do Karen no good. The search didn’t take long; besides the living room, there were only the two bedrooms, a single bath, and the tiny kitchen.

  We were the only two people there.

  Using her cell phone, he could have called me from anywhere. Maybe I’d been wrong all along. This really all might be nothing more than a message.

 
Dropping the Reaper, I knelt at her side. The stained carpet crunched beneath my knee and feet; most of the blood had long since dried.

  Karen’s breathing was ragged and shallow. The Sight inundated me with its usual rush of information; for once, it revealed nothing I couldn’t see with my unaided eyes.

  I straightened the robe, covering her properly. Elliott had told me the rules—sparing an unassigned soul was strictly forbidden.

  She had been my assignment, at one point.

  And if that wasn’t good enough, then screw the rules.

  Cradling Karen in my arms, I stood. Her blood smeared across my arms and chest, but it barely registered in my mind. If she had any chance at all, I needed to hurry. Robert’s Mustang was two blocks away, and the closest hospital another twenty.

  I’d call an ambulance, but it would never get there in time.

  “Michael…” Karen’s voice was little more than a whisper, and even that one word was halting.

  It sounded like the wind through gravestones.

  I shivered.

  “It’s all right, Karen. I’m here.”

  She moaned as I turned.

  “Goodness Michael, please…” She choked on the words, causing a cough which spilled her blood down my side. “Please,” she started more softly, “put me down.”

  My vision grew blurry. I looked around the room, unable to see the door. “Just hold on.”

  “No, Michael,” Karen whispered. “I’m ready—Robert’s waiting.”

  The breath caught in my throat and no words would come.

  “It’s okay; it’s done. Please put me down.”

  Moisture rolled down my cheeks as I carefully lowered Karen back to the carpet. I cradled her still, protectively, no longer intent on rescue.

  She smiled at me softly, her eyes fluttering half open. “Oh my, thank you, Michael…for all that you’ve done. Promise me, though, just one more thing.”

  I nodded slowly. “Anything, Karen.”

  “For all those people, for Robert, for me…” Another cough stopped her, fresh hot blood spilling from her wound to coat my hands.

  I leaned forward. “Yes?”

  She smiled weakly, regaining her breath. “Kill that bastard.”

  Her aura popped like a bubble, vanishing as I held her.

  With a nod of grim determination, I rose. “I intend to.”

  A glowing golden wisp slipped from her body to bob through the ceiling.

  My numbness faded. Fueled by raw anger, I strode purposefully from the condo.

  Spotlights trained on me the very instant I passed over Karen’s threshold into the dark night. Three police cars sat in the parking lot, blue and red lights flashing off the surrounding buildings.

  I glanced down at my clothing and my hands; everything was soaked in Karen’s blood.

  Apparently, I’d been right all along.

  Karen was bait.

  “Sir,” a loudspeaker-enhanced voice of authority called out through the night, “get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

  I slipped to my knees, defeated.

  The trap had been sprung.

  XXVIII

  A Thin Blue Line

  An hour later, they marched me through a back door of the Seattle Police Department’s North Precinct; it was nearly midnight. The dirty white building loomed oppressively above. An officer held each of my arms; cold metal bit deep into the flesh of my wrists.

  We passed more than a hundred people, uniformed and plainclothes alike. Each face held the same expression of disgust—this is the man that murdered a helpless old woman—this is the scum that killed a cop’s brother.

  A few were familiar—officers I’d played cards with, men with whom I’d shared a drink.

  This was, after all, Steve’s precinct.

  It didn’t matter to the gathered crowd that Henry Michael Richards had been largely a stranger. Their passion came with Steve’s membership in this exclusive fraternity. They shared my brother’s pain, and they shared his anger.

  And now Michael Reaper was the focus of their hatred.

  Irony can be a real bitch.

  I was led to an interrogation room, where my escort left without a word. I’d once played poker in this very room, drinking and laughing for hours, though it had felt much less confining then.

  I’d lost everything that night too.

  A heavy metal table sat in the center, surrounded by five uncomfortably bulky chairs. The requisite mirror filled an entire wall, opposite a pair of narrow, barred windows overlooking the parking lot.

  Above the door, a single mounted video camera tracked my every movement; its red LED eye stared accusingly.

  I reluctantly examined the reflection in the mirror. Large dark circles under my eyes screamed of exhaustion. My clothing and trench coat were wrinkled and disheveled. Blood covered me from head to toe.

  Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was a homicidal maniac.

  Anyone else certainly would.

  The handcuffs fell from my wrists with the barest thought, and I tossed them onto the table. They landed with a loud, jarring clang.

  I briefly considered letting my clothes clean themselves. While the handcuffs could be dismissed as a simple magician’s trick, a liter of vanishing blood would be much harder to explain.

  Massaging my wrists, I continued to pace.

  My options were limited. As the Reaper, I might slip from this room undetected. However, as Elliott was so fond of reminding me, the Reaper was not actually invisible. In a station full of police intent on every detail of my existence, my chances of escaping notice were slim.

  And even if I were to successfully vanish from this room, the entire precinct would spin into high alert within seconds. The odds of reaching the street were infinitesimal.

  At best.

  Besides, there was nowhere to go. They knew where I lived. Almost everyone I’d wanted to save—maybe even David Clarke by now—was already dead.

  Everyone except Bradley Kim; he just viewed me with mortal terror.

  I’d utterly failed.

  So, for now, I’d patiently bide my time and wait for something to happen.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  The interrogation room’s door opened to admit a single, plainclothes officer carrying a manila folder. Jeans and a green polo suggested that he’d been off duty, called in hastily from home. He walked with a confident self-assurance and flashed an easy, friendly smile that almost masked the loathing behind his deep blue eyes.

  And mixed with that loathing, perhaps the barest hint of hunger, and excitement.

  I’d met this man before. He wasn’t Steve’s partner, but they often worked together. No doubt Steve, and his partner Trey, wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near this case.

  At least not officially.

  His name was Brian.

  Maybe Byron.

  Or Barry?

  Steve just called him “that prick.”

  Now, usually I reserve judgment, but my brother and I typically agree on such things.

  The interrogator turned a chair around backward to straddle it casually. Placing his folder at the center of the table, he slipped the handcuffs into a shirt pocket without a word.

  “Please, sir, have a seat.” He indicated a chair across the table.

  I crossed my arms quietly and continued to stand, leaning against the two-way mirror.

  The officer smirked at my pointless display of rebellion. “You’re perfectly welcome to remain as uncomfortable as you’d like. I’m Detective Erik Thomas.”

  Right…Erik.

  To be fair, that’s actually pretty close for me.

  “I’m Michael.”

  “Yes, Mr. Reaper, I know.”

  After rustling through his manila folder, Detective Thomas carefully placed a glossy, 8x10 photograph in the center of the table.

  A thin, aging woman in her pink bathrobe lay dead, a good ten feet outside a large pool of her
own blood.

  I swallowed the lump as it tried to rise in my throat.

  “Do you know this woman?”

  My voice sounded hoarse. “Her name was Karen Winston.”

  The detective nodded, laying a second photograph beside the first: another room, another victim, and another pool of blood. “And what about this woman, what’s her name?”

  A brief flash of anger shot through me, quickly overwhelmed by a dark feeling of futility. My ankle began to throb, and I finally settled onto the chair he’d offered, defeated.

  “Michelle Harris.”

  “Do you know, Mr. Reaper, what these two women had in common?”

  I shook my head numbly.

  Detective Erik Thomas leaned forward with a predatory smile. “Exactly two things, as far as we can tell: one,” he held up a single finger, “you knew them both, and two,” a second finger joined the first, “they were shot with the same gun.”

  Of course they were.

  The bastard had wrapped things up so very neatly.

  Hell, if the cops didn’t have the gun already, they’d undoubtedly find it soon. In the trunk of Robert Winston’s Mustang, or some other equally incriminating place.

  Even if I were to escape, I’d be hunted the rest of my life while that son of a bitch continued on, carefree. My opponent had effectively removed me from the game and wiped his slate clean in one fell swoop.

  Detective Thomas pulled another photograph from his folder, laying it beside the first two—a grainy security camera shot from a hospital lobby. It showed a tall man in jeans and a trench coat waiting on the elevator, apparently alone.

  “Michelle Harris,” the detective began, “passed away last night. Where were you yesterday?”

  Right, crap…both Elliott and Joshua had warned me. We never reveal ourselves. They were giving good advice, and I was too damn pigheaded to listen. I needed to change that.

  Assuming I got the chance.

  “You have the picture.”

  “Why, yes.” My interrogator nodded. “Yes we do.”

  “I was visiting a friend. When I realized the time, I left.”

  He paused, as if actually considering that possibility. “Unfortunately, we have no evidence to prove that.”